Homecoming
by museme87
Summary: Sometimes Remus regrets asking Sirius to become a Death Eater for the greater good.


**Word Count:** 3,516  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> AU, infidelity, sexual situations  
><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> Written for hp_humpdrabbles' Humpfest 2011 at Livejournal with the prompt of _Infidelity, Diagon Alley, Secrets_. The scenario for this fic has been percolating in my mind for ages, so I was thankful to have an outlet for it in the form of a fest. A big thank you to L for the beta, cheerleading, read-throughs, and endless patience.

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As the sun sinks further behind the shops in Diagon Alley, Remus waits. He waits impatiently, hands constantly reaching for anything to busy himself with. They currently fuss over a napkin leftover from his takeaway and quickly shred the paper in a pile of impressively small bits before him. And while Sirius is by no means late for this rendezvous above the Leaky, Remus' nerves already have him on edge.

Suddenly bored with his tearing, Remus jumps to his feet, pacing unthinkingly about this small room. His fingers card through his hair in frustration, his eyes dart about the walls and furniture—clock, window, door, bed, clock, door. His sight falls heavily onto a stray crease in his perfectly turned-down linens, and it simply won't do. Hands make fast work of smoothing the soft sheets wrinkle free. It's only after he's appeased that he stares unseeingly and realizes that this meeting just might drive him to madness.

With a sigh, Remus catches sight of himself in the mirror hanging on the wall and examines his wearied face. He's tried so hard to wash the stains of war from his appearance—if only for tonight—and wonders whether or not he has succeeded. It's a hard task to accomplish—liberating himself of seven months of hardships. And even if the dark circles of sleeplessness bruise his eyes, perhaps the clothing—so carefully chosen—will distract Sirius' attention. Remus tugs at this favored shirt, watching it jump back into shapelessness against his abdomen. Once, the fabric stretched beautifully over his unbeautiful skin—chest and taut belly wonderfully defined. Once, Sirius had not been able to keep his hands off of him if he'd been wearing this shirt.

_I love what it does to your eyes, Moony._

And while Remus never quite understood what that _what_was, he searches for it desperately, now, in his own reflection.

As he leans forward to adjust his fringe into some semblance of messy order, the door to the room opens carefully, startling him. Remus struggles to maintain some form of casual appearance, but his eyes find Sirius, and he loses his ability to think, to move, to _anything_.

He has to resist the urge to choke up immediately because the time and the distance that have separated them for months have become hard burdens to bear. Just from the sight of Sirius, Remus has his answer to his first unuttered question: _How are you?_. For all that Sirius may be dressed in fine clothing with cleanly cut hair and the promise of a beard—a stark contrast to Remus' own shabbiness—Remus knows that the outside does not reflect the inside. Never before has he seen such dead, grey eyes staring back at him, and that alone is enough for Remus to regret everything.

"I love you," Sirius whispers in a rush, the distance between them collapsing just as quickly.

Before Remus even has an opportunity to process anything beyond those three little words that make his heart pause, he finds himself wrapped in Sirius' tight embrace. Their legs give out on them both—from shock? from relief?—and they slump to their knees in a pile of twinned limbs and hurried kisses.

He relishes the feel of Sirius' greedy hands seeking him out—neck to chest to hips to face. Remus understands this desperation all too well, knows what it is to wake up night after night only to discover their being together was a dream from the past. In haste, Remus crushes his lips into Sirius' own—their meeting frantic as if to convey everything before it's too late—before shifting to his rough cheek, his elegant neck, the spot behind his ear that drives him mad.

"Don't you _ever_pull bullshit—" And his breath hitches as Remus' teeth meet his flesh "—like this again."

"I won't," Remus promises desperately, pulling back to look into his eyes. "I swear to God I'll never do it again. We're safe now, Padfoot. She's pregnant. We're _safe_."

As he watches Sirius withdraw slightly, Remus realizes that he shouldn't have brought up Sirius' wife. At least, not tonight. Sirius glances at him like a wounded dog, beaten down by harsh reality before having his lacerations rubbed with salt. Remus can't blame Sirius, and Sirius, in turn, can't blame him. Not for this. Not for the forced separation that may have bought them more time. He's not sorry for it. He's _not_.

"We'll never be safe from him," Sirius explains weakly. "We're losing the—"

Remus shoves his index finger to Sirius' lips, stopping him. "Shut up. We _will_. As long as it stays a secret, we'll have him one day."

"Dumbledore's de—"

"Hush," Remus urges. "God, don't you trust me anymore?"

And that sends Sirius scrambling, his hands grasping for Remus' and bringing Remus' scarred, dry knuckles to his lips. Remus feels the way grey eyes worship him, and he can almost imagine being eighteen again, curled up with this man in their dingy flat and living a single life.

"You know I do, Moonshine. Quite literally with my life." Sirius' fingers slip through Remus' hair. "I wouldn't do this for anyone but you."

"I know it's a lot to ask."

"This mental plan of yours has kept us alive so far. You, me, the Order."

Remus turns his face, kissing the palm of Sirius' hand lovingly. "It's not been easy to ask this of you."

"I didn't sign up because I thought war was going to be easy."

"All the same."

"I love you," Sirius reaffirms, bringing his lips to Remus' forehead.

"I love you too."

He smirks. "Then show me how much because I didn't come here to talk about what's wrong with the world."

Briefly, Remus gives pause, wondering how Sirius can so easily push the war from his mind. If he's honest with himself, he's envious of such an ability. But he doesn't have time for such thoughts now, not when every second has to be seized and filled, bursting, with meaning. They've not the luxury of time anymore.

It's Sirius who makes it to his feet first, shrugging off his fine coat into a crumpled pile near the door. As Sirius' nimble fingers take to unbuttoning his shirt, Remus jumps up, provoked by the fierce necessity to have his hands all over his boyfriend. He flattens his palms against Sirius' broad, well-toned chest, smoothing the material tight until it is more of a second skin than anything. His fingers flick over Sirius' nipples—peaking with want—and Sirius' hips jerk slightly.

Leaning forward, Remus drags his teeth along his lover's neck as his hands fight to free Sirius of his confines. He hears Sirius' head hit the wall with a thud at that, breaths quickening from his opened mouth. And how Remus has missed this, missed having Sirius like he once had. Now too much gets in the way; this elaborate chess game they're playing with Voldemort is too delicate for him to take any reckless chances, especially ones driven by his own need.

But, fueled by the moment, by the memories, he selfishly sinks his teeth into Sirius' soft flesh. They struggled with this for so long, biting—Remus in fear that he would give Sirius his disease and Sirius doing anything he possibly could to encourage it. Remus' tongue laves his skin, his mouth sucking hard and teeth making their mark. As Sirius hips, his half-hard cock, grind against Remus' own, Remus almost forgets himself.

"Wait," Sirius pants, a moment too late. "Wait, Moony –oh, bloody _hell_, love—no. No, we can't."

It's only after Sirius pushes him away that Remus asks, "What do you mean?"

"No marks, remember? We can't risk it."

"Worried about her delicate sensibilities? Sirius, she _expects_this of you."

"I'm not worried about her. It's people like Malfoy and the Lestranges that concern me. I don't want them asking after my mistress, especially since I don't _have_one. But if they think I do, I'll have to make something up or present someone to them. I may be able to keep you secret and may be able to convince them that I love my wife and want this baby, but I can't juggle anyone else."

Sirius looks at him meaningfully, as if to ask him if he understands. However, Remus' thoughts are far too consumed with the thought of Sirius playing the dutiful, pure-blood husband to answer. He feels winded and drained and so damn miserable that he could scream. How did things get so out of hand? _How_?

"Remus?"

"You really pretend to love her?" he asks, staring at his feet.

"Come off it."

Remus feels himself being pulled towards Sirius, collides with his now bare chest and slips his hands against Sirius' skin. They stand there, motionless, and Remus takes in deep breaths of Sirius' scent—musky and warm and familiar.

"I only do it because the Order needs information if we want to bring Voldemort down. I _don't_love her; you have to know that. The only reason I married and got her pregnant in the first place is because you asked me to."

"I blackmailed you into it. You didn't want to, remember? But I hung our relationship over your head, and, God, how can you even stand to look at me? Most days I can't even stand to look at myself."

He remembers that day perfectly—the day he told Sirius he would never see him again if he didn't try to secure an heir for the family. Every word had been like a knife plunging into his heart, over and over again. At the time, he'd hoped that Sirius would understand, would see that they were losing this war and that he needed to take the next step in assuring the Death Eaters that he was serious about the pure-blood cause. Without that, Voldemort would begin to wonder, and Remus hadn't wanted to chance everyone growing suspicious of Sirius. Because the second they did, Sirius would be dead.

Still, he can't forget the sight of Sirius' wide eyes in the two-way mirror, the way the blood had drained from his face. Nor can Remus easily forget how quickly he'd ended their conversation, how he'd spent the following two hours crying on and off and refusing to eat for days. A wife Sirius could have easily disposed of after they'd won the war, but a child is permanent in ways that Sirius will never be able to shake. And it is the fear of that—of Sirius being forever changed—that had seized Remus that day and grips him still.

"I don't blame you," Sirius says, tilting Remus' head towards him. "You're keeping us alive and in this war, Moony. James may call himself leader, but I know these are your plans. And I'll follow them blindly, if that's what it takes to be with you again."

"But we'll never get to go back to the way things were before," Remus whispers, and hates how the weakness in his voice betrays him.

As if knowing intuitively that Remus can't quite handle any more words, Sirius reassures him by bringing his lips to meet Remus'. And they work together, moving in a well defined pace that Remus knows he will never forget so long as he lives. The feel of Sirius' teeth taking his lower lip between them sends a thrill racing down his spine, and Remus wraps his arms around Sirius' neck, pulling Sirius as close as he can possibly get against him.

Maybe, just now, the future isn't important. Because it's not guaranteed, and Remus spends too much of his time thinking about it, besides. Maybe having Sirius alive, breathing in time with him, sharing kisses and touches and so much more is worth more than any promise the future may or may not deliver. Maybe the position of leader—and the burdens that come with it—can be discarded for a while. And if the world sinks into chaos and hell because of it, at least he knows he'll die with Sirius.

So Remus pushes Sirius' unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders, trails his hands down the planes and contours of Sirius' abdomen before sinking fingers into the waist of Sirius' trousers. The way Sirius' hips cant at the touch of his fingers has Remus' cock twitching and is, perhaps, the only thing that can pause their assaults on one another's mouths.

With practiced ease, Remus unbuckles the belt and pulls it from Sirius' hips, Sirius' trousers slipping lower. Remus' hands cup Sirius' protruding hips, fingers pressing against the feel of muscle and bone beneath flesh. At the thought of those very hips pounding into him, Remus' cock fills to aching heaviness, breath shallow and flesh over-warm.

Sirius, meanwhile, struggles to rid him of his clothes, but only succeeds in pushing his shirt up to his chest and unbuttoning his trousers. The promise of Sirius' touch as Sirius' fingers ghost over his straining erection is almost too much to bear, and in the throes of mindless, feral need, Remus is reaching for Sirius' hand and shoving it into his trousers.

At the sight of Sirius smirking at his eagerness, Remus' cheeks burn. Still, Sirius seems happy to oblige him, taking his cotton covered length into hand, pumping and twisting in a way that drives him to the brink. Remus pants through the ministrations, shudders and moans, especially when Sirius finds his way into his boxers. He leans into Sirius for support, knees quickly weakening as his orgasm builds.

"Sirius, Padfoot, oh fuck," he mumbles into Sirius' neck.

And he's close—embarrassingly so—his bollocks so heavy they ache and cock so hard it's unbearable. All Remus wants is to come all over Sirius' hand, Sirius' belly. To mark him another way, a permissible way. _You're mine_, he thinks. _You're mine and I love and you're mine and I'm so close and this is all over and_—

But Sirius' is pushing down his trousers and shoving him back onto the bed before Remus ever reaches climax. He feels Sirius' fist close around the base of his cock, his hold painfully tight.

"You're not coming without me," Sirius almost growls. "Not after everything."

With a glance, he finds Sirius' other hand working to get his own trousers open and off his hips. It's a struggle, but Sirius' cock—thick and red and ready—springs free. The mere sight of has Remus spreading his legs.

He tries to relax, tries to will his orgasm into submission for now, especially when Sirius removes his hand. They shift together on the bed, moving up to the middle. Sirius hovers over him, nuzzles his neck, groans as their cocks brush past one another.

"I've wanted this for so long, Moony," he whispers into his ear, voice rough like gravel.

"Me too. Ages."

"You don't have anyone else do this to you—" And Sirius pauses, his fingers teasing Remus' opening, "—while we're apart, do you?"

His whole body quakes with the promise of Sirius' touch. "No."

"You're certain?"

Sirius' finger wiggles against him with enough pressure to stop his breath without pressing past the tight ring of muscle. Remus squirms, draws his legs up and wider until he's fully exposed himself. It feels brilliant, letting down the façade of a leader, giving all his power over to someone else. He wonders how he'd made it seven months without Sirius torturing him so, without Sirius guiding him into submission.

"All that time alone and you've not taken up with anyone else?" Sirius repeats in a whisper in his ear.

"I told you I haven't."

"Why?" And Remus detects the mischievousness in that question.

Forcing his eyes to depthless gray, Remus answers, "Because my arse is yours."

"Fuck," Sirius whimpers, eyes shutting tightly.

A finger plunges past his entrance, and Remus' breath hitches at the initial contact. It burns momentarily before he relaxes himself against Sirius' touch. Sirius then pushes another inside, working him to looseness. And Remus writhes, jerks his hips in a futile endeavor, seeking out any friction available. He can barely concentrate on breathing let alone thoughts, mind far too focused on the feel of Sirius' fingers against his prostate, the taste of Sirius' tongue in his mouth.

But that all comes to a halt when Sirius dips in a third finger, stretching him maddeningly wider. Remus feels cold metal against him, and then it hits him—Sirius' wedding ring. He hadn't taken it off this time, so caught up in touching and fondling. Remus feels his stomach roll, his erection flag slightly. Why the bloody hell does _she_ have to be here, haunting him? But if he dares say anything to Sirius, this will turn into another bitter conversation. He doesn't need to voice the words, doesn't want to; he lives with them every day: _This is your own doing, you fool._

"Sirius, your cock. Now."

And he's using the tone he uses with the Order, firm and brooking no room for argument. Sirius complies, withdrawing his fingers only to utter a brief lubrication charm before pushing inside of him. Remus dares not breathe, only feel the way that Sirius fills him, stretches him almost too wide with his girth. For the first time in such a long while, he finally feels at peace.

"Welcome home," Remus whispers against Sirius' temple.

For long moments they stay joined yet unmoving, basking in their stolen chance. Remus hears Sirius sniff, knows that Sirius isn't as strong as he pretends to be. And this is killing them—the lies, the distance, the compromises to their relationship. Each time they meet, a little part of them fractures. Each time they say their goodbyes, Remus wonders if the next time they'll shatter altogether in each other's arms.

Sometimes, Remus would prefer it.

As Sirius draws his hips back, Remus feels the emptiness creeping up on him. But Sirius is soon driving into him again. And again. And again. Remus' mouth hangs open, voicing wanton moans and incoherent pleas. His head lulls to the side as Sirius pumps his hips harder, faster. Then, Remus' eyes fall on the Dark Mark on Sirius' arm and has to resist an anguished sob.

_Look what you've done._

He turns his head—unable to confront another demon tonight—staring directly into Sirius' handsome face. The concentration there is intoxicating—teeth gritted, brow furrowed deeply, nose twitching upwards with every inward thrust; and what's more, it's all in the name of the pleasure that Remus is providing him at their bodies meet.

"I'm there," Sirius says through shuddered breaths. "Oh fucking hell, Moony, I'm there."

And Remus can feel it, the way Sirius' cock grows just a bit more before spilling come inside him. His muscles bear down on Sirius then, his own climax _right there_. It hits him suddenly, as if out of nowhere, as if he hadn't been expecting it. He calls out Sirius' name, and the _oh_that follows is more of a drawn out moan if anything.

Neither has much energy to spare to properly move, and so they collapse in shambles upon one another. Sirius nips at Remus' overly-sensitive flesh; Remus shifts away from him slightly. However, in the process, he feels Sirius' come slip out of him and down his thighs. He clenches, fighting against the loss, as if somehow having it inside him keeps a part of Sirius with him always. And it's stupid and nonsensical and he shouldn't get so upset about it—

"Oi, are you alright?"

Remus shakes his head. "No."

"Am I allowed to ask why?"

"No."

"You're sure?"

Remus looks him in the eye, his own misery somehow given in to welcomed annoyance. "Just getting a little sentimental about your come."

Sirius sighs heavily, fingers beginning to toy with Remus' overlong fringe as Remus sidles up next to him. Perhaps he shouldn't have been honest. It sounded a lot more ridiculous in his head—a joke almost. But he should have known better; Sirius never had been one to see past his forced lies.

"Someday the war will be over," Sirius says reflectively, winding his arms around Remus' shoulders.

"Yeah, someday."

"We'll be happy. Happier than ever."

"And I'll bring you home every night. Where you belong."

Sirius looks at him, gaze intense and eyes hopeful. "Do you swear it?"

"I solemnly swear it."

"Don't you dare break that promise."

"I won't. We're going to make it."

Whether they will or won't, Remus doesn't know. Whether things will be as they wish them, Remus doesn't know either. The things that he _does_ know are less comforting: the war will continue on for some time, he and Sirius will be apart, he will have to live knowing that Sirius has a wife and a child and a life without him. And while the light at the end of the tunnel may be faint and unattainable, the promise of it makes all of _this_ somehow easier to bear.


End file.
